


Dreamland

by Janissa11



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes things are just broken. Post-ep for "Grave Danger."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamland

He thinks, much, much later, that the explosion was a metaphor. In fact several literary terms boil up from his subconscious, thinking about it after time has gone by. Irony, for one. It is highly ironic that his day in hell ended with a bomb. After all, the 6x2 box had blown his life to smithereens. Wasn't the karmic echo a little overt?

He remembers very little of that hospital stay. He's been told it was a little longer than his doctor had first anticipated, thanks to infection and other things, but he isn't clear on what happened during that eight-day stay. Treatment, of course, and tons of rest, that kind of thing. He'd slept like the dead that week, probably explaining why he remembered only a few bits and pieces. No trouble sleeping. That had come later.

His parents leaving to go back to Texas –- that part he remembers. By that point, of course, it wasn't just his folks, either, it was family, every single one of his siblings and most of them had brought spouses with them, kids, until his house groaned under the pressure of his enormous family. In a way it was like a cool extended birthday party. He got stuff. Lots of it piddly-ass crap like new clothes and a new laptop, but some of it pretty damn nice. His dad decided the AC was on its last legs, and had a new one installed. Cabe took one look at Nick's battered bike and two days later brought home a gleaming titanium frame Trek, sweet black and four grand a pop. Nick could lift the works with one finger, it was so light. Awesome.

So he remembers them leaving. Remembers how quiet his house felt, in their wake. Not that he didn't have visitors, he did, plenty, but it wasn't the same. And lying there in his bed, relishing the feel of cool sheets against his bare skin, he felt a little lonely. Thought about how for a guy who'd grown up in a house that was pretty much Grand Central Station, with an extended family that numbered solidly in the three figures, he'd ended up such a solitary person. Lived alone since he graduated from A&amp;M, moved back to Big D. What was that, fifteen years or so? Long time.

After that, his memory gets a little more trustworthy. The funny thing is, at the moment he'd like to have reversed it. He isn't sure he wants to remember a lot of that first week, but he'd dearly love to forget how new things happened once his body got better. He thought a few times that it was some kind of survival mechanism. His brain had to cope, while his body couldn't. Once his body healed, the bites scabbed over and left tiny pink scars, bruises went away – his mind said, All righty then. Now it's MY turn. And totally ripped the rug right out of him.

He knows a lot about this kind of thing. He's read a lot, lately, about post-traumatic stress, survival stories, even shit like books on the Donner party and crap like that. He's been driven, lately, to understand what people will do to survive. Are there limits? If so, what are they? It appears, from what he's soaked up, that the answer to that depends on the person, and that's really not much help. Some people could do monstrous things to survive; others couldn't. Which is he? He doesn't know.

He remembers the one-month anniversary of his own Rubicon. He likes that word; makes it sound both fancy and important. He'd gone to see Kelly Gordon that afternoon. Hadn't gone so badly, either. She was sort of a bitch, but he didn't blame her for that. Her dad had been the kind of guy who'd kill both his own dogs to prove a point. Growing up with a guy like that, who knew what it would do to a person? Not to mention doing hard time. He hoped she'd gotten something out of his visit. Maybe she had, maybe she hadn't. He wasn't real likely to know which.

He's never ridden the bike. But he's thought about it, about the sleek black machine waiting for him in his house. He wonders, at times, if anyone will ever ride it. Or if it will sit, like the rest of his things, his new computer and his AC so big it could air-condition the MGM Grand, the binoculars he sometimes wishes he had here and the new clothes he's never had the chance to wear.

He remembers what came later. He remembers wondering why, after a month and change, his blissful sleep went away and didn't return. He was no longer sleepy, ever. He sat through the day in his meat-locker-cold house and stared at his bike, and wondered if he would ever sleep again. Pills did nothing. He had, it seemed, not just discovered a particularly powerful form of insomnia. He had become a person without the ability to sleep. He didn't need it, his body never demanded it. But he yearned for it, that utter relaxation, that nightly checking-out from the world.

In his first visit, his shrink asked him if he had ever dreamed. Had nightmares about it, what happened in that box. He'd shrugged, and said, "I don't sleep. How can I dream?"

He's found time, time that used to be wasted in sleep. It's actually sort of cool. Or would be, if he had anything to do with that time. He doesn't, and so he sits during the night, not reading, not watching tv. Just sitting, listening, sometimes thinking and sometimes just blank. Waiting, maybe. For what, he doesn't know.

And some nights, he crawls under his neatly made bed and places his palms flat on the underside of the mattress. And thinks, This is the last time I was alive. This was the last time I felt anything at all.

He waits, in the dark, to feel something again. Sometimes there's a flicker, a whisper of a reminder. But he can't remember, although the nerves in his hands still work. He can feel objects, but the nerves in his mind are numb.

It doesn't frighten him, that enclosed space. In a way, it's comforting. He has come full circle, maybe, discovering that he could view that box as a prison, or a womb. He thinks, right now, caressing the metal edges of his box springs, that he wouldn't mind going back. Maybe just for a while. Back to the dark, to the finite edges of a world.

He remembers coming here. Not exactly when – it's been some time, he thinks, not sure how long. He remembers his mother's face, and Cabe's. His mom's tears and his brother's raw look of anguish. He'd wished, at the time, that he could feel what they felt. They still COULD feel, and he could not, and he yearned for that sometimes. Briefly. Before he thought that maybe it was better not to feel at all.

"Nick?"

He recognizes that voice. They think he doesn't process such things, but he does. They just don't matter. That's the part no one seems to get. It's Andy, one of the night nurses. He's a good guy, Andy.

"Aw, man, there you go again." He can tell Andy's looking under the bed at him. "Come on out from there, Nick. Come on. Up you go."

He lets Andy guide him out from under the bed. No regrets; the bed will be there if he wants it.

"Every damn night," Andy says breathlessly, hauling him up to his feet. "Man, you don't watch it, they're gonna put you in four-points again. You understand? You want that?"

Nick regards him, and climbs onto the mattress.

"Want me to leave? Or stay?"

Nick watches him, alertly.

Andy gives a slow nod. "All right, I'll stay. For a while. Nothin' else going on anyway."

He looks over at the dark window, narrows his eyes and believes he can see a few stars. If he keeps watching, they'll disappear, washed out by daylight and the movement of the planet. But they'll be back tomorrow night. Trustworthy, dependable.

He wants to sleep. Sleep until the end of the world.

He clears his throat, and feels Andy looking at him.

"Somethin' wrong, Nick?"

Nick looks over his shoulder. It's been so long since he's said anything at all, he isn't sure he remembers how.

"I think," he says in his rusty unused voice, "I'm ready to get better now."

Andy watches him, jaw sagging, and Nick thinks that's sort of funny, but Andy's never actually heard him talk.

"I gotta call the doc," Andy says shakily. "Jesus."

"How long?" Nick asks.

"H-how long what?"

"Have I been here?"

Andy's plain features sag a little. "Long time, Nick. Real long time. Nearly two years."

Nick nods, and looks back at the window. "I feel better," he whispers. "Can I go to sleep now, Andy?"

"You sure can, buddy." Andy sounds really strange now. Choked up. "It's late anyway."

The bed is soft, and he flips the pillow over and slides his cheek against it and closes his eyes.

They fall from the sky, they run round your head  
They litter your sleep as they beckon  
They'd teach you to fly without wires or thread  
They promise if only you'd let them  
(Ideas Are Like Stars, Mary-Chapin Carpenter)

END


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